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MANAGER'S REPORT

There are several items of interest to KPFA subscribers this month.

First, I would like to welcome two new staff members to the station:
Tom Green, as KPFA's Promotion Director and Don Porsche, as our new
Public Affairs Director. Actually, although 1 use the word "new", it isn't
really correct. Let me explain.

Tom Green is 26, holds a Masters degree in mathematics, and is an
expert computer programmer on the side. But Tom isn't new to KPFA.
He began volunteering regularly in Promotion and Subscription at the
station about two years ago. His hard work, common sense, and good
humor have been a delight to us since he walked up our stairs. We welcome
him and know that you, our subscribers, will benefit tremendously from
his presence on the staff.

Don Porsche's name should be familiar to all of you. He was KPFA's
New Director from May 1967 to March 1969. Although I wasn't aware of
it, it turns out that Don was a classmate of mine at Columbia College,
graduating in 1961 with a degree in German. Most recently, Don was
a free-lance correspondent in Europe for the San Francisco CHRONICLE.
His experience in the News Department at KPFA and his demonstrated
rapport with volunteers should help in developing, even further, the
strong news and public affairs side of KPFA's programming

Both Tom Green and Don Porsche will be discussing their plans
for the station in future issues of the FOLIO.

I would also like to thank those of you who have taken the time
to write to the Federal Communications Commission and Senator Pastore's
Sub-committee, expressing your support for and interest in the continued
well-being of KPFA. We have received copies of several score letters sent
to public officials, and continue to be impressed by the intelligence and
concern they show.

LETTERS DO HELP. They indicate that, despite views to the
contrary, KPFA and the Pacifica stations carry out a function in
society not duplicated elsewhere and not easily (if at all) replaced - a
function so valuable that hundreds of listeners are moved to express
their interest and concern when its continuance is threatened.

If you write, when you write, please send us copies of your
correspondence. Thank you.

Lastly, a reminder. KPFA will be twenty-one years old April 19.

OJi VJZfimi^,

KPFA PACIFICA

1970 CHARTER FLIGHTS

EUROPE and JAPAN WORLDS FAIR

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PAYMENT DATES:

Flight 2
Oakland-London
First-payment S I I Opcr passenger, duc-
hy November 15. 1969.
Second paymerii v~^ per passenger,
due In January 15, 1970
I in 1 1 payment v~ ^ |xr passenger, not
later than March 1, 1970.

Flight <
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Firsi payment SI I [I |\ r passenger, due
bj Decemkt 15. 1969
Second p.nmcm S~5 per passenger,
due In April I. 197(1
I in ll payment S"*> |scr passenger, not
later than June I. I9T(I

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A MESSAGE FROM MARSHA BARTLETT
KPFA'S SUBSCRIPTION REGISTRAR

WE NEED THE DONATION OF AT LEAST
TWO ELECTRIC TYPEWRITERS IN GOOD
SHAPE WITH GOOD TYPE FACE FOR USE
IN THE SUBSCRIPTION AND MUSIC
OFFICES. CAN YOU HELP??? IF SO,
PLEASE CALL ME AT 848-6767.

THANK YOU

KPFA IOI.IO... MARCH l<)7()

Allan Michael Frankel

Cincinnati - Rockdale Temple - Northstar Camp

for boys - Oberlin College - cyclothymic

personality - brown Judo belt - Lieutenant,

USN (honorable discharge after 5 months)

- leader of all-girls tours of Europe -

member ADA (Amer. Dental Ass.) -- teaching

ass't. & master's candidate, SF State -

green car -- 34 years -

47 ROSEMUND WAY

"Asked how he came to name his Portrait of the Artist as a
Young Dog and whether he had been influenced by James
Joyce, he explained very quietly and with firmness that when
he wrote the stories which comprise the volume, he had not
read a word of Joyce."

When I was five years old. I saw my dog, part Cocker
and Beagle, emasculated before my eyes. Dr. Frizzie says this
has no significance, but 1 think about it lots. Life is not a
joyous occasion.

Yesterday, the grass was making shadows and the
salt foam nipped my toes. We were by the sea, putt-putting
out on the orange and yellow, empty afternoon bus; in dull
groups like the sand birds, we watched waves stand .on end and
fall. The mucous sea slides in, and Nurse Sally stands with us,
while Otgon, our attendant, gymnastically runs down the
beach and back, cutting a darker line through the neon-day-
light. Otgon is an Orangutan -- or at least he wants everyone to
believe that he is an Orangutan - and a high ass has Nui^e Sally.

My dog's name was Walter. Living the life of a Walter,
he was, until he was deprived. For, in truth, the kiddies in my
neighborhood - yes, my neighborhood -- were mean as butcher
knives; though it was an old, rusty Boy Scout blade that did
Walter in. Pulling it out Jerry says, "I think I'll cut off Walter's
balls." Jerry had a knack for such things and, today, although
I have seen him at his real estate business, I may still picture
him mashing a gold fish with the ball of his tiny, nine year old
shoe. So when he says goodbye Walter, and everybody dares
him and calls him chicken, 1 myself, know he is really going to
do it. And sure enough, Jerry takes a good hold, Swink!, and
off they come. Walter, who has been holding still with the
patience of an Abraham, screams like a movie air raid siren,
taking off in pain and terror through the back yards and into
the house, leaving a trail of blood through the kitchen and
even on the walls.

Walls. "Is there nothing that loves a wall." I think of
that poem. Walls have more character - a lot of character -
than we realize. There are cool walls and hot walls and jagged
walls and falling walls. Around me, is the cool wall of ivy and
cement turned in on the sun.

In the house where I grew up, the walls were a tan,
cool, plaster cream even in the hottest August days. Small,
delicate garden spiders would come out of the registers and sit
impassively on the cool walls, making thin shadows like ferris
wheels and, possibly, inaudible, musing, sounds.

Ackerman, John. Dylan Tfiomas, His Life and Work
(Oxford University Press. 1964), page 105.

My father was a doctor and president of the state
medical society. My mother played cards: solitaire when she
was alone and bridge two or three times a week with the girls.
Walter and I would pass through sometimes and see overstuffed
ladies gathered in frail, wood slat folding chairs around the
little card tables, the candy dishes of papered chocolates and
coated almonds and hard fruit jellies before them. The ash tray
stuffed with butts. There was the riffle and smell of cards in the
air. "Two clubs," "Three No," "I'll Buy," they would say.

It was late Tuesday, and I was sitting in the garden as
I do every afternoon -- crafts class, letter writing, gymnastics,
Dr. Frizzie taking up my mornings - when the mail came.
Otgon, grunting briefly, handed me a faint blue envelope from
my brother's wife, Suzie, who manages to giggle even in print,
and a strange, plain envelope of cheap quality. I had never
gotten an envelope like this before. It was addressed
OCCUPANT, 47 Rosemund Way. Not being especially
enthused about giggles at the moment, I turned my attention
to this envelope of mystery. It was heavy, or rather, thick, and
full of important impersonality. But while I paused gazing at
it the bell rang for dinner. Placing the envelope in my upper
breast pocket, I went to eat and saved the pleasure of my little
surprise for later.

The dining room, half filled, was large and white and
the food, what is called institutional. As I entered, I heard about
me the unintelligible, but clearly audible, drone of a hive of bees
and I ate my dinner mainly in silence. I will not bother to
describe my fellow boarders. Those in my ward were quite a
variety, proving as medical science has long known, that mental
disease favors no class, race or religion. But on the whole, there
was little difference between myself, or my actions, and most
of the others. Although I must mention my red scarf. When I
was a Junior in a small, Congregationalist college, I began
wearing a red scarf around my neck, mainly as a gadfly, and I
have worn a red scarf ever since, in doors and out, except for
the hottest months when 1 was in New York. When people said,
"What's the red scarf for?", I would say: it was my great grand-
father's, the Bosnian Count and General. (I was prone to lie
occasionally.) But my scarf does go quite decently with the
inmate's white uniform and even in this plain dress, my slim but
tall, blond body cuts a nice figure.

After dinner, I turned down the long, rowed brick
corridor -- green plastic sprouting in pots and tarnished penny
plaque: "John Wessling Wing, 1953" -- to my small cubicle of
a room. The walls were puke green and so small that 1 often
felt that I was wearing the enclosure like a shirt. But tonight I
took no notice of the walls and turned my attention immediatly
to the unopened envelope. Flipping on the desk light, I forced
my first finger underneath the flap and carefully pulled it open.
Then, inverting the envelope, I gently shook out the contents
on the desk top. It was a packet of small, glossed colored papers.
The colors were brilliant and gay and I smelled them. They
smelled like a brand new text book. I picked one of the papers
up and began reading. It said in lipstick red letters, "Save 10i/
with this coupon on new COLD POWER", and at the bottom:
"Good only on COLD POWER' and other use constitutes
fraud." Another one showed a photograph of Mrs. Betty B.
Miller of Memphis, Tennessee, and another one said, "We'll pay
you 7</ to try the short cut way through ironing day". A bright
yellow one posed questions in black letters: why are water based
waxes dangerous on wood floors? what is the best all-purpose
floor wax on the market today? why and how should I remove
old layers of wax? There were pictures of detergents in turtle
green boxes, a "proved oral antiseptic now in family size", and
a show business blue rooster who could sing holding a box of
cereal under each wing.

I continued reading through them until near the end I
came to a piece of paper that clearly out-sparkled all the rest. It
shone with phosphorescent pinks and purples, oranges, and
tomato reds and greens and in small gothic type all over the

surface it said: contest, contest, contest, contest

Turning the piece of paper over I read: "Grand Prize" "WIN"

KPFA FOLIO. ..MARCH 1970

"A surprise taste test of four of Europe's Greatest
Restaurants and a dream trip for two to London, Paris,
Rome and the Riviera (including round trip transport,
hotels, meals, entertainment, sightseeing). You will fly
TWA Star Stream jet PLUS free groceries for five years."

'■Submit your entry blanks before May 19th, it

concluded.

A feeling of grandeur set my heart beating, and I walked
over to my small, shuttered window and glimpsed a patch of
cold nite sky. Specks of stars clung to black branches making
vernal Christmas trees. Should 1 enter that contest? I thought.
Images Hew through my head, I knew I could win it. But the
time passed away before I realized, for my ponderings and
dreams of Grand Prizes were abruptly interrupted by Nurse
Sally who came in with her insufferable pill tray and gave me
mine. Nurse Sally, despite a high ass and a face and figure that
were decidedly young and pleasing, had the soul of a brand new

Army Instruction Manual. "Here's your pill. Mr ", and

handed me mine and the small paper cup of luke warm water
which filtered down my throat like glue. Pivoting to my bed,
she coolly ran back the covers. Only a prostitute or a nurse
could develop that precise motion, I thought. "It's time for
bed, Mr Have you been to the bathroom?"

Before retiring, I carefully replaced the glossy pieces of
paper in their envelope and carefully placed the envelope in my
uniform pocket. Then, folded into the cool Creamy Whip sheets,
lavendered in violet night, an oozy delirium slipped over me. And
swarming phosphorescent pinks, tomato reds and oranges,
mingled in a sky of jet liners over a nursery rhyme London.
There was a patch of night sky like a swatch of cloth, and,
ofcourse behind it all, the pale greenish hills and the friendly
face of Walter.

Walking back beside the wall on visiting day, Silvia, my
third wife (we were together so short a time -- five months --
but I feel that we really got to know one another. I ask myself,
is it possible to know someone in five months) -- Silvia, placing
her hand as thin and pale as a pine root against her cheek said,
"Rotten Cindy's getting out of prison."

"Do you mean the watermelon eater?" I said.

Rotten Cindy meant absolutely nothing to me or my life.
And I should have forgotten her as quickly as Silvia mentioned
her if it were not for the fact I had experienced her, a sickly,
thin girl, eat an entire watermelon by herself, rind and all, in
twenty-five minutes. She was stoned on acid at a Village party
and thoroughly enjoyed it. The watermelon disappeared in
great long slurps and slops -- first the red part, then the white,
then the green. The rest of the people watched her and she said,
"yes, yes", in between mouthfuls with the same fervor I had
seen at a revival meeting in 1952, in a Holy Roller who had just
been saved. When she was done, her stomach stuck out like a
pregnant sow's. Possibly the watermelon had reconstituted
itself within her; immobilized by this great bulk in her center,
she lay on her back on the rug for four hours, a passive, pacific
island in a sea of humanity.

"Where will she go?" I fingered my red scarf.

"Back to Zen'Eden, I guess," Silvia answered in her voice
Hal as a nail. Silvia had the face of a momma doll, with pale,
artificial color to her cheeks and Huffed hair and black eyes and
black, long, regular eyelashes and lids that seemed to want to
close. Her nose and mouth had a patent, doll-like precision, and
her only non-mass-produced, brown, non-sUnnped-out part were
some freckles thai splattered her nose.

I thought ol tliose short days in New York and our short
lives together. Silvia even now had brought the Parchesi board
with her. When I had met hei al the gate she had brought it out
from behind hoi hack and held it up for me to see. She knew I
would respond, lor I loved to berate Silvia's childlike love of
Parchesi. (She lelt most at home in the silent, amniotic world of

Parchesi men.) Sometimes, especially in the late fall, we would
stay in bed all day, get up, bathe, fix a fancy dinner with candles,
and play Parchesi all night. One time I said, "Well Silvia, shall
we screw all day and play Parchesi all night, or shall we screw
all night and play Parchesi all day?" We ate a fancy dinner and
went to a movie instead.

"Look what I've got." She held up a torn out scrap of
newspaper from a distance.

"What's that? I'll bet it's a Dear Abby column?"
"Don't worry, we're tired of Dear Abby columns."
"Oh yes, I forgot to tell you. I may win a free trip to
Europe."

"Europe? They won't even let you out of this looney bin.
Here read it."

The paper Happed on my hand and I began to read:

"Dr. R.L.Van de Castle of.. .was discussing the frequency with
which certain animals appear in dreams. According to a head
count that Dr. Van de Castle has made, the animals which pop
up most commonly in dreams are dogs and horses. Dogs and
horses are reported mainly by women dreamers, but the next
most popular type of animal -- birds - largely populates the
dreams of men. Dr. Van de Castle thought that dreams with a
higher mammalian content might reflect psychological maturity.
Children, for instance, have more dreams about insects than
adults, and primitive people tend to dream less about the higher-
animals, too. Dr. Van de Castle reported a poll of dream animals
taken among the Yir Yoronts, who are Australian bushmen; it
turned up 6 ducks, 5 turtles, 3 lizards, 1 flying fox, 1 crab,
1 leech, 1 rat, 1 bush cat, 1 bull, 1 cow, and 1 bandicoot. "2

I faked an authoritative scowl. "Yes, psychological
maturity", I said.

"You havn't told me a Walter dream for a long time,"
she coaxed.

Next to Parchesi, Silvia had a strange fascination for ny
Walter dreams. Tell me some more Walter dreams she would say,
like a child saying 'tell me a story'. She seemed to enjoy having
a fantastic scene set before her like a plate of oranges.

"Tell me the one about Rose Kennedy," she said,
assuming one of her dream listening poses, head cupped in hands.

And so I told her the Rose Kennedy one again. I think
when I was twenty, I was reading Lady Chatlerly's Lover and I
dreamt that Rose Kennedy, the mother of a President, came to
visit me. Carefully ushering her into a special room, we beheld a
large trunk of jewels, -- diamonds, rubies, sapphires - and on top
of this sparkling treasure trove, glowing itself, lay the newly-dead
carcass of Walter and a paperbound copy of Lady Chatterly's
Lover, opened in the middle, face down, to expose the blue and
red and gold covers.

"I like that one," she said.

I smiled, and looking along the wall at the line of fir and
nut trees, yellow with gaunt flats of sunlight, I saw once more a
spring, cool, frail and clear, but burnished. I saw myself and my
dog leave the brown house through fields, growing small to boys
wrapped in checks behind stalks of condensed breath; and then,
in the clear floor of the woods, dashing through^ touching fronds
with our ribs, crushing the juice from leaves with our flying hard
feet, until we are both so tired, panting, we lie down, our bellies
on the cool April earth. I sec the pale April wind as gentle and
intoxicating as a veil, a thin stream of wood smoke, and looking
at the big, bright April sky, so blue and full of stuffed, puffy
white clouds that moved imperceptibly, endlessly by, as long as
I wished to look.

At some time, a moment of idle chatlerless rectitude, I
had decided, long ago, that dogs were not human. That I was
human. Yes - that there was a difference to human beings, I said.
Dogs may experience it all, I Said, but a dog is carefree and happy
because a dog has no picture of (he coming attractions in death.
I, or we, am, or are, going to die, I said. Yes, I said.

2"Di . Van de Castle Speaks", The San Francisco Examiner,
August 3, 1967, page 12.

KIM A FOLIO.. MARCH 1^70

Dr. Fri/zie began: What is a Walter?

And I: What is a Waller? Walter is a five letter word tliat

spells a name. I mean, six letter.

Dr. Frizzie: Well then, what does the name Walter mean?

And I : Walter is a Saxon name meaning "lord or master

of the wood." In Old English, it would by
'Wealdhere\

(I was a sub-chaser for facts that grabbed my
attention.)

Dr. Frizzie, changing lacks: Let us just for a moment imagine

that there was no Walter, that you are pretending,
playing a game, that there never was a Walter.
Wishing, perhaps, that I would play this game with
you. Why, if you were pretending, making it up, do
you think that you would want to do so?

And

But I'm not making it up. 1 say there was a Walter.

Dr. Frizzie: Yes, perhaps Walter was a school friend, or some-
one that you disliked

And I : Walter was a dog and he was castrated, God Damn

it.

Th-ink, you must have known someone else by the
name of Walter'7

It's my life and I know what happened in my own
life.

Your brother says that your family never owned
a dog named Walter?

I paused, breathing deeply, and suddenly felt a coolness, a calm-
ness, like a doctor's cold stethescope on my temples. In a slow
even voice I answered.

Did it ever occur to you that my brother may be
lying or that he was too young to remember?

It was a telling point, a hard surgical cut, and 1 was out of danger.
Slowly, ejaculating my show of triumph, I walked to the door.
I firmly turned the knob. Then, standing half in the long, empty
corridor and half in the room, I had one last thought:

Walter's the only thing that makes sense in this
shit-ass world, I shouted.

My voice reverberated in the hollow corridor. 1 had nothing
further to say, and I finished closing the door.

Today is Wednesday and we are at the sea, tasting once
again the salt and grit. The wind is a hurricane; I have never felt it
so strong and the sun glints like a tin foil wrapper in the mist. I
stand with the others, as usual, my red scarf pointing street-ward,
feeling the strike of the wind in my face and nostrils. It is a blow
to gale us off the beach.

All of a sudden, we hear a strange, loud rattle and,
looking up, above us, above our very heads, we see a woman at
least eighteen feet tall, in the air, above our heads. She is flapping
and rattling with a hard lipsticky smile upon her face and,
obviously, is detached from her billboard in the strong wind
because she is wearing a zebra bikini and, in one opened palm,
she holds a brand new, maroon-plated Chevrolet. We scream in
terror and our eyes squint and we run down the beach like
haunted things with Otgon and Nurse Sally chasing after us.

I begin to run with the others but I do-not wish to run
and fall behind. There is something going through my mind, some-
thing besides terror. It is a picture, a lighter, freer picture. I slow
to a meditative walk. I know the war is on. It is a picture that
every grammar school boy has seen. The teacher holds up the
opened book and says, this is Simon Bolivar, liberator of
Bolivia. He is on a charged, white horse in full uniform, sword
circling, and the black and white photograph sky behind him.
I think of other bygone heroes: General MacArthur, Terry 'n
the Pirates against the Dragon Lady - and I know that I can not
run. I know the war is finally on. I say it out loud, "The war is
on", and turn around to face the amazon.

But I have no weapon. Quickly, glancing about me at
pebbles and half buried clam shells and a scurrying crab, I sec a
huge piece of kelp, thick and long as an arm, lying on the higher
beach, drying and mouldering. I pick it up, scattering a drove of
sand flies, and my panic does not lessen. The blood pounds
and thuds and I feel as though 1 may faint or gasp up blood;
but I stand with my kelp staff clenched in both hands, chest
high, and my feet digging into the beach, waiting. That song.
What is it?

Yes. That song: "Paper Doll...." How is it. I'm going to
buy a Paper Doll that I can call my own." I had forgotten it:

"I'm going to buy a Paper Doll."

"I'm going to buy a Paper Doll."
Joyfully I sing it. Consciously. Emphasizing my
unconscious compulsion.

"I'm going to buy a Paper Doll."

"I'm going to buy a Paper Doll that 1 can call

my own."
And now the great she-monster swoops down in a great
woosh and flap.

"Paper Doll that I can call my own."
and I swing out with my staff and hit her mightily in the face
so that her mouth rips all the way across the smile and out of
her face.

"Paper Doll that 1 can call my own."
She draws back for an instant in astonishment and pain. Her
face is now hideous and distorted with rage. And then she is on
me, swirls on me. I am snared, entrapped. I feel great Zebra
clad breasts pressing against me. I swing out with my kelp club,
slashing and lashing. I tear holes through her until my own force
of swing throws the club from my hands and it hollowly thumps
the wet sand. I swing my fists furiously but it is useless. I am
surrounded, bound in a sea of paper. I struggle, screaming to
free myself from the monster but it is useless. Now we are down,
rolling over and over on the sand. I taste sand in my mouth and
feel sand on my face. I see sea shells and flashes of sea waves go
by as we roll furiously. It is useless. I am bound. Wrapped in
the paper monster. I relax. Yes, I am lost. All is lost. Paper
Doll. Paper Doll. Paper Doll.

We arc on a bus going home now. The intervening time
is a blank, and vague in my mind: lying on the beach, my rescue
by Otgon and afterwards. But now I am on the warm moving
bus, out of the spring chilled twilight, hearing the dum, dum,

dum, dum of the bus motor and feeling the hot air of

the bus heater on my face. In the tinted green bus window, I see
worlds of colored buildings and people swim by, drained, empty
brained, beaten. I feel hollow. The back of the bus seat in front
of me is painted with a glossy, gray enamel, and I look at my
face in it, distorted and wavy and slightly gray. But I am not
really seeing myself; it is more as if I am looking at myself
seeing myself, as though my realness were in total blackness
spying through a pinhole into a scene in a lit box.

When the bus stops, we get out, Otgon leading the way
down the dirty rubber steps into the street. The air is chilled,
I feel it numb me. We walk down the short block to the entrance

KPFA FOLIO. ..MARCH 1970

gale and stand there huddled in a shivering group while Nurse
Sail) finds hei ke> . I happen lo look up, and directly acrosss

the street nu eye catches a red and blue mail bo*. I look at it.
The dull hollowness is still within me but I seem to feel - to
acknowledge -- what I must do. Yes. Slowly and steadily with
direction I leave the huddled group and cross the street lo the
mail box. I hear Otgon and Nurse Sally calling after me but I pay
no attention. When I reach the box I look at it and bring out of
my pocket the white envelope . slightly crumpled, thai I have
been holding all this while. Trying to decide. 1 open it and pick
out the piece of paper that says "Contest" and read once more
the words that set my mmd to churning. Yes. I must do it. Yes.
I can do it. Right beneath the words, "Grand Prize" and "WIN",
in the boldest letters I have ever seen, it says, "NAME THE DOG
CONTEST", followed by a blank. 1 do not hesitate. I remove a
pencil from another pocket and forcefully, yes, boldly, pressing
hard. 1 write WALTER in the space. I open the box and, staring
into its black void for an instant, I drop the paper in.

bv Allan Michael Frankel

TWO POEMS BY JEFFERSON BLUE

My real name is not Jefferson Blue. I was born
in Chicago, as were all my parents. In 1962 I left
Chicago and went to college. In 1965 I flunked
out of college and became a hockey fan, a condition
which persisted until my marriage in 1966. From
1966 until 1968 my wife and I lived in Seattle,
Washington. Since 1968 we have lived in San
Francisco, in a comfortable apartment overlooking
an intersection and Dolores Park. We have two
full-time dogs and another part-time dog.
My real name is Musto Calligramme.

ANOTHER POEM FOR THE OLD LADY

She's

playing with the dogs. . . .

Beneath her hands

they open up

fill and transftvm space:

A FRANK ZAPPA HISTORY OF THE WORLD

Old Men i

in Rock & Roll clothes

Old Men

in Be- Bop clothes.

Old Men

in Swing clothes.

Old Men

in la// clothes.

Old Men

in Ragtime clothes

Old Men.

a chain of meadows

stretched across the livingroom

across the bedroom

down the hall and up

the long stairway

of my life.

KIM A F01 IO... MARCH ll>70

THE RETURN OF MORNING MUSIC

MONDAY * STRANGE LANDS AND FRIENDLY PEOPLE
Judith Cook and Doreen Hansen of the KPFA Music
Department will produce programs on ethnic music
of all peoples.

TUESDAY * TUESDAY MORNING CLUB
With Julian White

WEDNESDAY & THURSDAY * IN THE MORNING
With Jack Harms

FRIDAY * ODE TO GRAVITY

A rebroadcast of Wednesday night 's program with
Charles Amirkhanian.

LIVE CONCERTS

CAMERATA PLAYERS MARCH 8, 7:30-9:00 PM

RADIO EVENT NO. 8, "BAGS" MARCH 28, 8:30 PM
Live from the Berkeley Art Center. Anyone wishing to
view the show of bags by Anthony Gnazzo, Peter Veres
and Gene Turitz is invited to attend. There will be a $1.00
donation for the benefit of KPFA. The show will be a
unique integration of radio and gallery. You can witness
it at the Gallery in Live Oak Park, Berkeley, or in your
home over KPFA or KPFB.

SAN FRANCISCO CHAMBER MUSIC SOCIETY

MARCH 30, at 8:30-10:30 PM

Amici Delia Musica Woodwind Quintet live from the

Fireman 's Fund Theater on California Street in San

Francisco. Works by Mozart, Haydn, Hindemith and

Poulenc.

RADIO EVENT NO. 7, "JUNK AND ALL THAT JAZZ"
BY ANTHONY GNAZZO MARCH 23 at 9 :00 PM
Participate in your home. Listen in for instructions and
see further warning inside the front cover of the FOLIO.

RECORDED CONCERTS AND INTERVIEWS

1969 CABRILLO FESTIVAL

From Aptos, California, we present the recordings made

by KPFA at last Summer's Cabrillo Festival. The Festival

featured Carlos Chavez as guest: we will hear the premiere

of his Discovery, a work for orchestra.

MARCH 2, 9:00 PM; the 9th, 9:00 PM; the 14th, 7:00 PM

the 15th, 7:15 PM; the 20th, 9:30 PM; the 21st, 7:30 PM.

HGHUGHTS
HIGHLIGHTS
HIGHLIGHTS
HIGHLIGHTS

HIGHLIGHTS *^ STHGILHGIH
HIGHLIGHTS STHGILHGIH

STHGILHGIH
STHGILHGIH
STHGILHGIH
STHGILHGIH

BENNETT TARSHISH PRESENTS

WEDNESDAYS AT 9:00 PM

Formerly New Recordings from Europe on Friday evenings,

Bennett Tarshish moves to a new time with a new program

title. An engaging hour and a half of solid classical music.

ODE TO GRAVITY WITH CHARLES AMIRKHANIAN
WEDNESDAYS AT 7:00 PM: REBROADCAST ON
FRIDAY MORNINGS AT 7:30 AM
A new weekly program by composer and intermedia
artist Amirkhanian which will most often deal with
music and its extensions.

CAL ARTS - DISNEY'S DOUGH TAKES FLIGHT
March 7 at 7:30 PM; March 10 at 9:00 PM;
March 13 at 7:00 PM; March 27 at 7:00 PM
In September, California Institute of the Art's will open
its doors to embark on a radical plan of art education.
KPFA 's Charles Amirkhanian and Richard Friedman
visited and talked with many members of the extraordinary
faculty which includes Robert Corrigan, Herbert Blau,
Allan Kaprow, Dick Higgins, Morton Subotnick, Ravi
Shankar, and Bella Lewitsky. Financing for this intermedia
educational system derives mainly from the estate of the
late Walt Disney.

PUBLIC AFFAIRS

THE NEW WOMAN MARCH 17, 10:15 PM
again on the 31st at 1 1 : 1 5 AM

BIAFRAN RELIEF MARCH 1, 8:30 PM

THE PERSON OF TOMORROW MARCH 19, 9: 15 PM

ABOLISH THE PEACE CORPS MARCH 14, 8:30 PM

HOW MANY PEOPLE CAN WE AFFORD?:

HOW MANY I S TOO MANY? MARCH 1 4, 1 : 00 PM

MAKI NG BETTER USE OF YOUR TIME
MARCH 7 9:00 PM

RACISM AND THE URBAN CRISIS MARCH 6, 10:00 PM

THE GOVERNMENT AND THE CONSERVATION
MOVEMENT MARCH 5, 10:15PM

NEWPAL MARCH 3, 11:00 PM

DRAMA & LITERATURE

CINEMA HIGHLIGHTS
THE GERMAN FILM with Hal Reynolds and
Lottie Eisner MARCH 14, 5:00 PM and
MARCH 31, 1:30 PM

CINEMATOGRAPHY AND THE NEW SCULPTURE
MARCH 5, 9:15 PM

FOUR FILM-MAKERS - THE GRAND CENTRAL
STATION MARCH 24, 11:00 PM

FEINSTEIN AND FIANNI BISIACH MARCH 16, 9:00 PM

BENTLEY & BRECHT ST, JOAN OF THE STOCKYARDS

MARCH 12,9:15 PM

ALAN FRANKEL READING HIS STORY

47 ROSEMUND WAY MARCH 15, 9 : 30 PM

BABARAMDASS MARCH 7, 1:00 PM

KEITH BARNES READING HIS POEMS
MARCH 18, 11:15 AM, and the 31st, 7:30 PM

ON STAGE EVERY FRIDAY AT 8:00 PM

IVANOV

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

THE GLASS MEN A GERIE

ANTIGONE

JKPFA FOLIO.. .MARCH 1970

COMMENTATORS AND OTHER PUBLIC AFFAIRS PROGRAM PRODUCERS

STEW ALBERT, Yippie activist

HENRY ANDERSON, free lance social analyst and writer

DAVID N- BORTIN, Bay Area attorney who generally discusses "law and order"

FATHER EUGENE BOYLE, chairman of Commission on Social Justice, Archdiocese
of San Francisco

GEORGE BRUNN, judge of the Berkeley— Albany Mmicipal Court

HAL DRAPER of the Independent Socialist Clubs and an editor of New Politics
and/or Anne Draper of the Amalgamated Clothing Workers staff & secretary of Citizens
for Farm Labor

GERALD FEIGEN, newspaper & magazine writer & physician

PETER FRANCK,East Bay attorney active with the National Lawyers Guild and the
Movement Liberation Front

TOM HAYDEN, political activist and one of the founders of SDS
JEANETTE HERMES, attorney who has done research in Chinese law

JOHN HOPKINS, educational assistant for the Consumer's Cooperative of Berkeley

MARVE HYMAN, chemical engineer and lecturer on pollution control and computer
applications

J. DENNIS LAWRENCE, computer programmer at Livermore

RICHARD LOCK, former resident and teacher in Japan, now doing graduate work
at UC Berkeley

ROBERT S. MAC COLLISTER, high fidelity consultant

WILLIAM MANDEL, widely recognized authority on the USSR and author of
Russia Re Examined

DICK MEISTER, labor writer

JACK MORRISON, former member of San Francisco Board of Supervisors

STEVE MURDOCK, writer and commentator on political affairs

KEITH MURRAY of Ecology Action

NICHOLAS PETRIS, Democratic State Senator from the 1 1th District

ROBERT PICKUS, president of the WiWld Without War Council of the U.S.

HENRY RAMSEY, Richmond attorney

HAROLD REYNOLDS, graduate student in German at UC Berkeley

SIDNEY ROGER, journalist specializing in labor affairs

BEN SEAVER, Peace Education Secretary of the American Friends Service Committee
of Northern California

PETER SHAPIRO, member of the Joe Hill caucus of SDS at San Francisco State College

LEWIS F. SHERMAN, attorney, and Republican Slate Senator from the 8th District

ROBERT TIDEMAN, director of the Henry George School of Social Science in San Francisco

KIM A 1 01,10... MARCH ll)7()

<*G*4 1 |fc*cN>

8:00

KPFA NEWS

Rebroadcast of last night's

news.

8:30

MORNING CONCERT

Beethoven: Sonata No. 21

inC

Barenboim, piano

*AngelS-36581 (29)
Weinberg: Quartet No. 2

for Strings (1960-4)

Composers Quartet
♦Columbia MS 7284 (25)
Bach: Cantata No. 170

Lehmann, Bavarian State

Orch.

Archive ARC 3067 (23)
Beethoven: Sonata No. 20

in G

Backhaus, piano

♦London CS 6584 (6)
Foss: Time Cycle

Bernstein, Columbia

Sym. Orch.

♦Columbia MS 6280(31)
Brahms: Serenade No. 2,

Op. 16

Abbado, Berlin Phil.

*DGG 139 371 (34)